


Outside, It's Stopped Raining

by one_of_those_crushing_scenes



Category: Avengers (Comics), Next Avengers
Genre: Alternate universe children, Bobbi meets Francis, Family, Gen, I mean he's a teenager, Light Angst, kid fic i guess, lots of feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:35:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21663811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_of_those_crushing_scenes/pseuds/one_of_those_crushing_scenes
Summary: Bobbi Morse is a damn good spy. So the figure who’s been staking out her apartment all week doesn’t escape her notice.But his identity...well, that might surprise her.
Relationships: Francis Barton & Bobbi Morse, Implied Clint Barton/Bobbi Morse
Comments: 7
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MsMockingbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsMockingbird/gifts), [angelt626](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelt626/gifts).



> Song title is from [3 AM](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C-Naa1HXeDQ) by Matchbox Twenty.
> 
> The Francis in this story is the one from Avengers Vol. 4 and Avengers World, the one who's currently living on Earth-616. I borrowed a lot of backstory from the Next Avengers: Heroes of Tomorrow movie, though.
> 
> I’m imagining that this takes place sometime during All-New, All-Different Marvel, before Secret Empire, because I have no idea what the Next Avengers are up to now that SHIELD doesn’t exist and Hill has limited power.

Bobbi Morse is a damn good spy. She was trained personally by Nick Fury, has years of field experience, and, oh yeah—one time hid out on a planet of green-skinned aliens for three years without being caught.

So the figure who’s been staking out her apartment all week doesn’t escape her notice. It’s a male, lanky, looks to be a little over six feet tall. He always wears a hoodie, so she can’t see his face, and he keeps to the shadows like he’s been hiding all his life, but Bobbi knows a thing or two about being followed. And for some reason, she’s being followed. She doesn’t like it, not at all.

One evening, catching a glimpse of him behind the stairwell across the street, Bobbi decides she’s had enough. She climbs out the back window, doubles back around the block, and sneaks up on him from behind.

“Hands in the air and turn around slowly,” she says, hands on her batons.

Instead, he takes off running. Bobbi sets off after him, but he doesn’t make it easy, darting between traffic-slogged cars, turning into hidden alleyways, jumping over fences. He’s faster than almost anyone she knows who _isn’t_ a speedster, but she can literally do this for hours without getting tired. In the end, she catches up and forces him into an alley with a dead end.

He stops in his tracks as he reaches the brick wall, and in a voice that sounds much younger than she expected, he says, “Okay, okay.” And he finally turns around to face her.

As soon as she sees his face, her heart jumps. That nose, those ears, this messy blond hair—there’s no question whose kid he is. He’s got to be fifteen at least, which means he was born before she met Clint, maybe even back in his circus days. Did Clint know? No, he couldn’t have. He would never have hidden a son from her—would never knowingly not make his son a part of his life, no matter what.

He stares at her as she stares at him, and the words just fall out of her mouth, unintentionally. “You look just like him.”

At the same time, in the same dazed voice, he says, “You look just like her.”

Wait.

“What?” Bobbi says.

He looks just as stunned as she feels. Maybe she was wrong to jump to conclusions so quickly. If he’s not Clint’s kid with an old fling or girlfriend from back in the day, then...

“I thought I was ready,” he says, looking at a puddle near her feet. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Who do I look like?”

He raises his eyes to hers and swallows hard. “My mother.”

The air suddenly feels very still. “Who—” she chokes on the word, then starts again. “Who’s your mother?”

“Was,” he clarifies. “My mother was Bobbi Morse.”

She feels a ghost of a cramp in her uterus, but it passes as quickly as it arrives. Her, or some version of her—a mother. Is it a trick? She searches his face again, looking for traces of herself. It’s harder to recognize, but...Bobbi lets her eyes go fuzzy and sets aside her preconceptions. There. He does look a little bit like her old baby pictures. And his chin kind of reminds her of her brother, Ben.

He’s her _son_. From a different universe? From the future? A future where she’s dead? She feels her chest fill with some emotion she can’t identify.

He still looks a little skittish, like he’s afraid of how she’s going to react.

“Okay,” Bobbi says, taking a deep breath. “So...you should come inside.”


	2. Chapter 2

Retracing the steps from their chase earlier is a little awkward, but once they get inside her apartment, it’s easier. She makes tea while he sits on the couch and catches her up, giving her a brief summary of his life from the universe he comes from. It's all very post-apocalyptic, but he tells it all in a matter-of-fact way. In his world, Ultron took over the world and killed almost all of the heroes, and afterwards, he lived with Clint in an underground community of rebels until Clint was killed by Ultron, and then he found a group of Avengers’ kids and they started their own revolution which was interrupted by Kang the Conqueror, and then Kang and Ultron fought and now both of them are dead. A few months later, he fought against a Chitauri invasion and survived the rise of AIM after that. It makes her dizzy. He’s been through a lot, this kid.

Francis. Francis Benjamin Barton; that’s his name.

He takes the mug of tea from her, then holds it up to his mouth to warm himself on the steam, but he doesn’t drink it.

“So, I’m not sure I understand entirely,” Bobbi says, sitting down in the armchair across from him. “Is your homeworld our future? Or is it a parallel reality?”

It’s hard to stop staring, now that she knows. If she had had a child in this universe, would that child look like him?

He shrugs apologetically. “It’s _a_ future, but I don’t understand that sort of thing. You’d have to ask Iron Man. Or Jocasta.”

“Jocasta,” Bobbi repeats, surprised. She wonders what the connection is.

“Well, our Jocasta,” Francis amends. “In our universe, Jocasta helped hide us from Ultron, and she somehow ended up here, too.”

All of this happening under her nose, and Bobbi knew nothing about it. “How did you get here—or now—anyway?”

“Oh, it was just this thing.” He waves dismissively. “AIM from the present was making trouble in the past—well, the future and the present, I guess, from your perspective—and, well...we’re the Avengers. So we stopped them.” 

“You're _the_ Avengers?" Not the Young Avengers, not the Champions. "How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

So young for so much responsibility. “Jesus. How old were you when...when your parents died?”

Francis smirks, and _oh_ —if she thought he looked like Clint before, this is uncanny. “It’s okay, you know. I do fine. You don’t have to—I’m not like Oliver Twist or that shit.”

“I’m sure you do,” she responds. “Joined any circuses lately?” That one will land like a rock if Clint from his universe had a different childhood than Clint from hers, she realizes after saying it.

Apparently not because he chuckles. “Does SHIELD count?”

“SHIELD is employing teenagers now? SHIELD is employing my teenage son from another reality and they didn’t even tell me?” Bobbi sighs and shakes her head. “I’ll just add it to the list of things Hill owes me big for.”

“Speaking of Hill, I should go,” Francis says, looking at his watch. “She’s got us on a pretty strict schedule.”

“You sure you can’t stay for dinner?” There are so many questions she hasn’t gotten a chance to ask, so much about him that she wants to know. How much does he remember about her? How long has he been here? What are his plans? What’s his favorite food?

“I really can’t,” he says. “Maybe another time? I have Tuesday evenings free.”

“Great. Do you like pizza? What am I saying; you’re Clint’s kid. Of course you like pizza.”

“To be fair,” he points out, “does anyone not like pizza?”

Bobbi laughs. “Spoken like a true Barton.”


	3. Chapter 3

They have a standing dinner once a week. 

As time passes, as she gets to know him as a person and not just an idea, she’s amazed at how he’s turned out. Irreverent and cocky like his father, sure, but he’s like her, too. He wanders the city in his free time, hangs out in the library and the free museums and the botanical gardens, consuming as much knowledge as he possibly can. He tells her about the phylogeny of brassicaceae and the history of linen and all sorts of rude slang words he’s picked up in a dozen languages.

From what she gathers, he didn’t get much of a formal education back home, but he picked up bits and scraps and bits of miscellaneous learning. He’s got an amazing grasp of technology, which makes sense for someone from the future. And as much as she sees in him a reflection of herself and of her ex-husband, she loves seeing the parts of him that are all his own.

“Can I ask you something?” Francis says one evening over tacos. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “You and my...I mean, you and _him_. You’re aren’t together in this timeline?” he asks. “Or, uh, at this point in time?”

She bites into a too-big piece of raw onion, and the sharp flavor fills her mouth. “No, not now. We used to be married, but we split up a couple of years ago.” Thinking about that always sends a pang through her heart. She doesn’t know if it hurts or helps to know that there’s another world out there where they were able to work things out but then died young, leaving a kid behind. She knows that there are parallel universes and that they sometimes cross with her own, but she never thought about alternate versions of herself and what sort of lives they might live—or not, in this case.

“Oh.” He doesn’t ask any follow-up questions, which is good, because she’s not sure how to explain any of it to a teenager, especially a teenager from a post-apocalyptic future who might not understand the nuances of the issues that broke them up, the thin line between spy and superhero that somehow became an impassable gap for the two them.

“Can I ask _you_ something?” she asks in response. Francis nods. “Why were you spying on me and not on him?”

He grimaces. “Not fair, my question was a yes or no.”

“You don’t have to answer,” Bobbi says, “but he would want to know that you exist. He’d want to meet you.”

“Right.” Francis wipes his hands and leans back in his chair the way Bobbi’s mother would never have allowed. “It’s just...I knew my father.”

She fills in the blanks: but not his mother. He’s never told her exactly how old he was when she died, but he must have been young.

“Meeting a different version of him would be too weird for me, you know?" Francis continues. “He's not the person I remember, and he doesn't know me, and I don’t want—” he inhales sharply and doesn’t finish the sentence. “I mean, one day. I’m just not ready now.”

She’s not comfortable keeping this secret from Clint. She’s kept secrets from him once or twice, and it always ate away at her insides, and it always ended badly. But this isn’t her secret to tell. So notes her official protest but agrees to keep it all under wraps for the time being.

“Have any of your friends contacted this world’s version of their parents?” Bobbi asks.

“Not as far as I know,” he says. “They were all raised together in the compound, so they have a different...perspective, I guess? To—one...one of us, her parents weren’t actually dead, just in hiding her entire life, and she says she’s not interested in meeting them here, but _I_ think she’s—” he cuts himself off. “Well, that's not the point. Hey, I wanted to show you something,” he says, changing the subject. He digs into his pocket and hands her something; a photo. It's a selfie of a younger her and Clint. They have their arms around each other, and Clint beams at the camera while Bobbi watches him with a grin of her own. It's such a cliche, the kind of candid that's so perfect it has to be staged, but they were that happy once.

She examines the picture closely, knowing Francis isn't showing this to her for nostalgia reasons. She recognizes their clothing--a pale yellow T-shirt on her and an olive green and gray striped tee on him. She hasn't seen that shirt of hers since the whole Skrull thing, but Clint still has his. It's a little more faded now, but it’s still in circulation.

They never took this picture, though. That's the Santa Monica Pier in the background, and they've never gone there together. Actually, they had plans once, but then it rained, and they were going to reschedule, but then Graviton...and it never ended up happening.

So Francis isn't from _her_ future, not exactly. It's got to be a parallel timeline, similar to this one but not quite the same.

"This is a great picture," Bobbi says out loud. He looks at her expectantly, and she has to admit what she just realized. To her surprise, he reacts to the news with a delighted laugh.

"Then maybe it doesn't happen here!" he says. "Maybe Ultron doesn't win."

 _But you don't exist_ , she thinks, before realizing that he _does_ exist, he's standing right here in front of her. He's real, and he's alive, and so is she, and even if the circumstances of his birth never happened in this universe, the future is wide open.


	4. Chapter 4

To protect their privacy, Francis tries not to give too many identifying details about his friends, and Bobbi’s come to know them as J, T, A, and P. The know-it-all, the charging Amazon, the “only one of them with a lick of common sense,” and the kid.

That's not to say he doesn't make the occasional slip. One evening, he gets a text message that has him snorting and shaking his head as he looks at his phone. "He's such a little shit," he mutters as he puts the phone back into his pocket.

"Who is?" Bobbi asks. She doesn't want to pry, but she can't deny being curious.

"James." His eyes widen a second later at the realization that he said the name out loud, but then he just shrugs, like, _what can you do_.

“James? Who’s that, Natasha and Bucky’s kid? I never really figured him for the ‘Junior’ type.” Although, to be fair, neither would she have figured Clint that way, but apparently, they gave their child his middle name.

“No, uh...things kind of played out differently where I’m from.”

She scrutinizes his face, trying to figure out what _that_ means, but he’s not giving anything away.

Francis continues from where he left off. “Anyway, he keeps bugging me about where I disappear to every Tuesday at this hour. Now he’s accusing me of having a secret girlfriend.”

Bobbi raises her eyebrows. “They don’t know you’ve met me? What is it with you and secrets? You must have gotten that from me.”

Francis smirks and digs into his rice. They eat silently for a few minutes until he pipes up again. "I should let him think I have a girlfriend," he says, more to himself than to her. "Serve him right for poking his nose in."

She gives him a curious look. He never said it was like _that_ between any of the five of them. “Trying to make him jealous?” she asks.

“Pfft. He wishes."

She takes a bite of chicken rather than respond.

After a beat, Francis says, "Eh, who am I kidding. Neither of them is interested in me."

"Neither?" This is getting interesting.

"Him and...T," Francis admits. "He thinks he's better than me, she actually _is_ better than me, and why are there _two_ unattainable people in my life that I can't stop thinking about. And why am I talking to _you_ about it? No offense," he adds quickly.

“None taken,” she assures him. “Anyway, you only know, like, six people in this whole universe, right? Maybe if you went out and made some more friends, this won't seem as overwhelming."

He frowns. "I don't exactly have that much in common with most of the people around here."

"You'd be surprised at how many interdimensional immigrants we've got." She thinks it over. There’s that other Wolverine, Evil Beast, Rachel Grey and maybe one or two of her siblings? She-Hulk’s niece, America Chavez, Marvel Boy if he’s still calling himself that, Howard the Duck, that Gwenpool person she heard about the other day... "I don't have the connections to many people your age, but I know Kate’s friends with some of them."

His ears perk up. "Kate's here?"

“You knew Kate in your world?”

“She was like a big sister to me,” he says. “She boarded with us for a few years. Bought me my first bow and arrows.”

“What happened to her when Ultr—no, I don’t want to know.” A shiver runs through her. Kate is too young for anything bad to happen to her, although of course the world doesn’t work that way.

“She survived it,” Francis answers, ignoring her amendment. Which, good, that actually makes her feel better. “In all the chaos, they needed leaders to step up in all the major survivor’s centers, so she traveled a lot, and so did Dad and I. We’d send messages and meet up once in a while. After he died, she came to get me, brought me around with her, but I was leaving our group unprotected, so I went back. Last I heard, she was in Cleveland.”

“Well, there is a great deal of demonic activity in Cleveland,” Bobbi says.

Francis gives her a strange look.

“Never mind,” she says. Apparently, _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ doesn’t make it through the apocalypse. “So, do you want me to put you in contact with her?”

“Mmmm, I’ll get back to you on that.” His phone buzzes, and he checks the incoming message and huffs. “That asshole,” he grouses, but he’s hiding a smile as he puts the phone away.


	5. Chapter 5

After all these years, she feels like it shouldn’t affect her as much as it does, but October 12th is always an emotional day for her. The one time she was pregnant, October 12th was her due date, and even though she miscarried early on, she remembers each day of that pregnancy. She cut down on caffeine as soon as she found out, and that combined with normal first-trimester fatigue made her need a nap every afternoon and sometimes twice, something Clint took care to indulge her in. She remembers sleeping with her hand cradling her still-flat belly, as if to give the fetus an extra layer of protection. It didn’t help anything, of course, but the pregnancy was probably never viable in the first place.

Fifteen percent of pregnancies end in miscarriage. She’s just one of tens of millions of people around the world who’ve been through this, who carry this experience around with them. Normal.

She spends the day keeping busy with routine tasks: taking care of overdue paperwork, meeting up with Cindy Moon to review her training, analyzing a bunch of new field reports from undercover agents and updating their assignments based on the data, an hour at the gym, and a hot shower afterwards.

When she gets home, there’s a flower delivery on the table just outside her door. It’s a beautiful arrangement, bursting pink carnations interspersed with tiny white yarrow flowers and thin strands of tree fern. A little more delicate than her usual taste, but it fits the occasion.

There’s a note. _Thinking of you today. All my love, Clint._

He’s never missed a year, no matter what the state of their relationship has been.

Bobbi holds the paper to her heart and allows herself a few minutes to mourn what could have been. Without rationalizations like _our lifestyle doesn’t allow for it_ or _what would have happened to the baby when you were replaced by a Skrull_ or any of the other voices that usually tell her it was for the best. She mourns for the kicks she never felt, for the newborn that never clenched her finger in their fist, for no first smile, no first steps, no first tricycle, and no first day of school.

When she feels up to it, she brings the flowers inside and puts them into a vase on the counter. She takes a picture of the arrangement, which she sends to Clint along with a thank-you text. As she presses ‘Send,’ there’s a knock on the door. Of course; it’s Tuesday. She probably should have canceled, but she didn’t think of it. But maybe this will help. She may not have given birth to him, but Francis is still family.

He’s holding a bag when he comes in, and he puts it on the counter and takes out a round cake pan with what looks like an unfrosted chocolate cake inside. “It’s my birthday,” he explains. Her heart catches in her throat. He doesn’t seem to notice, and continues, “I know it’s weird to bring your own cake, but I forgot to tell you, and I didn’t want to make extra work at the last minute, so...”

Bobbi swallows hard. “No, it’s great. Happy birthday. How old are—wait, no, I can do the math. Seventeen, right?”

“Yep,” he confirms. He indicates the cake and says, “The recipe might not be exactly right. It’s from memory; I never saw it written down. My, uh...my dad used to always make it for my birthday. He had this one tub of cocoa; only opened it once a year. Chocolate wasn't something easy to get ahold of. After he died, I took the rest of the cocoa and sold it for materials for my bow and arrows, but I kept the container. Still have it. I use it for odds and ends and stuff."

She can hardly speak, both because of the rapidly growing lump in her throat and because she doesn't know what to say. This boy... _her son_...he deserves a safe, loving home with as much chocolate as he can stomach and parents to tuck him in every night, seventeen years old or not. At least he had Clint as long as he did—who turned out to be just as amazing a father as she always knew he would be.

"It looks delicious," she manages to get out in an even voice. She thinks she even recognizes the cake. Clint used to make a cake with super cheap ingredients, a recipe he'd picked up in the circus. "I think I might have candles somewhere." She pulls open a drawer and starts going through it. They’re underneath an unopened box of pens, a half-used box of birthday candles with orange and white diagonal stripes. “There we go. Happy birthday.” She doesn't have the wherewithal to contemplate what it means that her alt-universe future son has the same birthday--but in a different year--as her unborn child. Maybe she'll ask Tony if he has any thoughts on the matter.

“Thanks,” Francis says. He looks around the room, and his eyes land on the pink-and-white bouquet. "Those flowers are nice. Did you have a date or something?"

She follows his gaze to the flowers. "No, not a date. Well, not that kind of date." She shakes her head to clear her mind, then blurts out, "Listen, Francis, I know you're nervous about meeting Clint and comparing him to the version that you have in your mind, but I think it would mean a lot to him to be here tonight. Even if he doesn’t know it yet."

Francis presses his lips together in thought. After a few seconds, he nods. "Yeah, all right."

“Yeah?” she says. “You’re sure? You can say no. I don’t want to pressure you, if you’re still not ready.”

He looks between her and the cake. "No, I mean, yeah. That would be...that'd be okay."

“Okay.” She picks up her phone and punches in Clint’s number with shaking hands.

He answers on the first ring. “Hi.”

“Hey,” she says. “Are you free for dinner? There’s someone here I think you should meet.”


End file.
